


Transmissions

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Abuse, Alpha Tony, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And the one time it was nice, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bruce Banner, Basically 5 different ways the universe screwed Tony and Bruce over, Cancer, Child Abuse, Dark Bruce, Drug Use, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Omega Bruce, Overdosing, Poor Bruce, Poor Tony, Rape, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words are just empty promises of a future that doesn't exist.</p><p>(Five ways Tony Stark meets his soulmate that are unfortunate, and one way that is ... less unfortunate.)</p><p> </p><p>  <b>(Chapter 7 is Bruce's POV of all parts)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I never wanted to meet you

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Doctor/Patient; cancer.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**1**

 

The doctor’s office was small, tucked between a group of trees a few miles off of the main road, and it sucked.

Granted, it was a medical facility, so it was pretty much mandated by the cosmos to suck, but still.

Tony sat with his back to the door of one quiet room, slumped into the cushioning of the chair they had settled him in hours ago, watching the steady drip of the IV bag with lost interest. He couldn’t see where the fluid went, the tubing disappearing beneath the overly-large sleeve of his Black Sabbath jacket, but technically he knew it was flowing through the needle embedded in the crook of his elbow, feeding into his veins in some stupidly hopeful attempt at helping him.

Hope. Help. His mother hadn’t even bothered to come in today, dropping him at the door with a quick kiss that smacked cold on his cheek and a reminder that Jarvis would be by to pick him up after. He had watched the dull gold of the Jaguar pull away before he had even made it to the door, and hadn’t seen her look back.

Hope? Help? At eighteen, he was dying, with a definite death stamp on the bottom of his foot and in every newspaper headline once a month for the past two years. There was no help in that, let alone help.

His father, at least, recognized that. Good old Howard Stark, already trying to create replacement heir to groom. His mother just seemed to be going the opposite direction (no hope was no life with Maria Stark, and if there was actually something Tony did hate about all of this. His mother had the most beautiful smile).

(He hated taking that smile from her).

He blinked at the IV bag again. Drip, drip, drip.

The door creaked from behind, the grind of metal on metal of the handle twisting altering him that it was open even before the rush of the hallway’s cold air embraced his body. He twisted the chair carefully, mindful that the worthless medicine and equipment attached to his body had actually cost someone money, dragging the pole in a circle with him as he turned to face the intruder (“Be polite, Master Tony,” Jarvis would always admonish).

The man that pushed through the door was (a doctor, obviously) unfamiliar, roughly about his size despite their age difference, a mess of brown curls on his head that illuminated emptily under the room’s translucent lights – the lab coat (seriously?) hung loosely over his body as if it were never intended for him. His eyes were focused on the files in his hand, no doubt containing every record on Tony’s impending death, but when the door closed behind him with a firm metallic _click_ , his head snapped up (as if he was surprised to be where he was, s _eriously,_ what the fuck? It wasn’t cute, no, it was stupid. How did you get lost in a doctor’s office?), brown eyes immediately zooming in on him and lighting up with actual genuine warmth that sent a hard shiver up his arm.

“Sorry about that, I swear I was paying attention,” the doctor offered up sheepishly, pulling his glasses from his face to pocket. “I’m Doctor Banner-.”

 The pleasant warmth died to a deathly chill immediately, and though the man was still talking, Tony couldn’t hear anything but the sudden violent pounding of his blood.

_Holy fucking shit._

**Sorry about that,** the mark along his spine spelled out in quick, tight cursive strokes, **I swear I was paying attention.**

“Tony!”

The hands cupping his face were large, calloused (different than how he had ever imagined, but felt fucking perfect), strong thumbs absently stroking over the ridges of his cheekbones, puffs of firm warm breath hitting his lips in the punctuated rhythm of words.

“-breathe. Okay, Tony? You need to calm down. You’re alright. Everything’s alright. Can you calm down? Deeps breaths. Watch me. Deep ones, there you go.” (If he looked closer, there were flecks of green in the brown, like tiny shards of shattered glasses painted emerald. It was fascinating; it made him sick).

Desperately, sucking in heavy breaths the burned, Tony reached up and grabbed the wrists of the hands holding him (why did this have to happen?)

“I never wanted to meet you,” he gasped out, fingers tightening as the grip suddenly went rigged. _I’m sorry it was me._

(Those eyes actually did look shattered now).


	2. You have it (you've always had it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Modern setting; Social vigilante (an ode to Batman)

 

* * *

* * *

 

**2**

 

The gun pointed at Tony’s head was shiny, black, and shaking.

The man standing in front of him was shaking, too. New York’s October rain was unforgiving and brutal, and the man was in no way dressed for the water the poured from the sky like fragments of a flood, blue jeans worn out and purple t-shirt painfully thin. He was shaking, and so the gun was shaking, but the way his eyes continued to widen as he aimed suggested the shivers weren’t from the cold. He looked young, maybe no older than him. Maybe younger.

It really was amazing, the random things your mind noticed right before you were about to die.

At Tony’s feet, Howard sucked in a harsh, wet gasp – he didn’t dare to look down, didn’t really dare to move – but he knew his father was scrabbling in vain to put pressure on the wound to his abdomen the gun’s bullet had sang to him, knew it wouldn’t do any good because his father wasn’t talking, and Howard Stark always talked, and if he wasn’t talking-.

“Shut up!” The man screamed as his mother shrieked out another whimper beside him, the gun’s target shifting. “Do you really think I won’t shoot you?” On reflex Tony took a step forward, in front of her and in front of the _gun_ (he could lose Howard, he didn’t mind losing Howard, but the thought of his mother’s body twitching in some New York City back alley, her life bleeding out helplessly in the rain when she wasn’t even a _Stark_ _anymore-),_ his mother’s hands fisted his jacket tightly in desperation.

“Please, we can get you money,” she pleaded, trying to drag Tony back. “Any amount you want. We’ll pay it.”

The chuckle the man released was bitter. “Money? You think money will fix all of the wrongs your family has done to this world? I don’t want your money.” The steel of the man’s gaze drifted into Tony like a knife. “I want your _life.”_

**I want your life.**

Tony heard his mother’s stifled gasp against his shoulder, felt her hands jerk in surprised denial.

**I want your life.**

His father choked on another gurgled breath.

 **I want your life,** stamped in a loop in an arch around his heart.

“You have it,” he answered automatically, barely more than a whisper, because hell, he had always wanted to say that. Had always hoped the words on his skin would be said first so he could give that assurance back. “You’ve always had it.”

The steel melted in a sharp drip, the man’s lips parting in a disbelieving, _“son of a bitch,”,_ the gun drooping slightly.

_Oh my God, it’s you._

Tony felt his father shift heavily against his feet as the man took an unconscious step forward.

_What’s your name?_

The echoing wail of a fired gun cracked through the air, and he jolted.


	3. What did you take?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. College; drug overdose

* * *

* * *

 

 

**3**

 

Tony’s fucking high as a kite and he _loves it_.

The frat party is roaring and there’re lips attached to his neck (whoops, nope, those are gone now) and everyone is either high or drunk or high _and_ drunk and college is _fantastic._

Sort of.

_Don’t fuck this up._

_That’s all you ever do, Tony._

_You always fuck up._

Nothing kills a buzz faster than the voice of Howard Stark.

He pushes through the crowd of intoxicated, ignoring Rhodey’s drunken questioning noise as he grabs the red cup from his hand and downs the contents. Alcohol burns through his veins as he shoves through the back door and into the relative quiet of the balcony too small to hold much more than an overeager quickie.

_Worthless-_

Tony’s shoe kick something warm and he stumbles, catching himself on the railing as his eyes fall to the body trembling on the weak wood. Surprised at the contact, their eyes meet.

He’s thin, about his age, maybe older (it’s too dark and he’s too stoned), and the trembles look to be more of tiny, bodywracking convulsions that swamp over his body like waves that make his eyes roll back in his head.

“What did you take?” Is all Tony can think to say as he drops down next to the other male. The eyes open again, so dilated they’re almost black, and there’s a solid moment of breath-hitching silence before something like a self-hating sob escapes the other’s throat.

“N-not enough to hallu…cinate you.”

_Your soulmate doesn’t even want you._

**Not enough to hallucinate you.**

“ _No.”_ Tony chokes it, head spinning, but the body beneath his has gone lax.


	4. It is very nice to meet the replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Alpha/Omega; Your father's whore

* * *

* * *

 

 

**4.**

The bonding ceremony was over by the time Tony made it to the mansion.

That might have been intentional (fuck it, it was totally intentional, he had called Jarvis twelve times in the past four hours to make sure he would arrive a _fter_ Howard had been bound by law to the slut he had bedded in heat) and he wasn’t necessarily inclined to apologize for it.

(Because his mother (his beautiful, soft, adoring mother) was his father’s _soulmate._ Sure, she may have been a Beta to Howard’s Alpha and not the Omega he had always imagined for himself, but she was his _soulmate._ You didn’t just … _throw that away_ ).

He slammed the door open with careless familiarity, smirking as a scattering of remaining guests jumped at the sound, brushing away the hands of an attendant offering to take his coat (like he was actually going to stay long). Jarvis, he knew, was in the kitchen, overseeing the hired caterers and standing closer than necessary to the phone, and his father … more than likely standing in the center of the room, if the gathering crowd and faintest scent of Omega was indication enough.

(What he knew of the Omega was scarce; Jarvis was oddly tight-lipped on the details. Tony knew he was a man, close to his own age (because Howard would always be Howard), intelligent enough that his father was calling the bonding an _investment_ , and was apparently beautiful enough in heat to tempt a married man to bed (possibly not fair, because _Howard,_ but Tony had seen his mother’s careful façade shatter when she had read the message and he wasn’t the most forgiving person).).

“Ah, Anthony!” Howard Stark’s boastful voice indeed boomed from the group of guests, which parted like a sea at his approach. He plastered a hard smile to his face at the sight of his father’s silver head, the pristine gleam of his bonding suit, the large, slightly weathered hand he extended out. “Late, as usual, but what else could we expect from you?” The guests chittered with laughter. “Come and greet my Omega.”

At the term, Tony’s eyes swept down the length of Howard’s other arm to the slim shoulders it wrapped around, sliding up the slender neck to the face it held. The Omega (who else could it be?) blinked at him with large brown eyes that held no joy of the day. He _was_ small, shorter than Tony’s own unimpressive height, almost unhealthily slim _,_ and other than the arm, he was keeping an obvious distance from his new Alpha.

(He smelled delicious like an untouched whore)

“It is very nice to meet the replacement,” Tony simpered, reaching out to grasp the Omega’s hand. Howard’s attention had already been grabbed by another, and therefore it was only him who noticed the brunette tense as he brushed his lips ceremoniously across his knuckles.

“A replacement would have more value than me,” the other man whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

Tony froze.

His eyes darted up to the pale face and the longing, broken look being cast upon him. He could practically feel the burning of the words that curved along the back of his ear.

**A replacement would have more value than me.**

Nails bit painfully into his fingers as Howard turned back toward them.


	5. Cut him once more, for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 - Mob; Mercy Killer

* * *

* * *

 

 

**5.**

 

Tony watches the knife swing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

His mother’s body is sprawled out and lifeless, her blood soaking the cushions of the couch he’s never been allowed to sit on.

His father is sitting tied to a chair, blood slowly trickling down to the floor from his slit wrists, He’s staining the Persian rug beneath him, and some part of Tony is taking as much vindictive pleasure in that as he can manage (how many times has he hit that rug, sent to the ground by Howard’s fists and under the sharp toes of his shoes? How many times did he beg, _plead_ for it to stop, only to be ignored and then screamed at for damaging the expensive and worthless floor cover? How many?)

The man standing in front of his father is tall, blonde, well-built with a hard expression on his face that hadn’t softened at the slaughter of his mother, hadn’t melted when his father had whispered “Steve” in a disbelieving tone; it had flickered briefly, when icy blue eyes had landed on Tony, but the flicker had been brief and no longer exists.

(They’re efficient, this group of people. They’ve done this before, because they’re doing it right (what’s right?).)

This is Howard’s fault. Whatever is going on, it’s because the man – Steve – is mad about something his father had done. Tony’s given up trying to understand their words; everything’s going fuzzy, whether because the scent of the blood or the drug stuck him with before they had laid him out (carefully, dare he say gently? Go figure) on his father’s desk, he can’t tell.

(He wishes he could tell Steve, or Steve’s men (oops, that’s a woman), that killing him in front of Howard will have no effect. That Howard doesn’t love him, doesn’t even like him, that they would have had better luck drawing out his mother’s murder than his own).

(He wishes he could tell them thank you, _thank you_ , for waiting until Jarvis had left before breaking in to kill them all).

Something heavy and warm lands on his ankle – fingers the wrap in a comforting grip around the bone. He forces his eyes to move downward – they barely listen – to follow the fingers to the hand they belong to, to follow the hand up the arm that carries it, the shoulder the bears it, to the hard brown eyes that soften dramatically when they see his attention.

The man touching him squeezes again before stepping forward, those same fingers trailing up his leg and arm in careful touches before carding through his hair, smoothing it back with soothing motions. Tony’s arms are going numb but the touch is comforting. Something warm, wet travels down his cheek, and the man’s other hand moves to lightly brush away the falling tear.

“It’s just like falling asleep,” the man says softly, sounding sort of sad, “and it won’t hurt at all. Just like falling asleep. Shh.” He wipes away another tear. “It’ll be alright. Close your eyes, Tony. It’s okay. Don’t fight it.”

 **It’s just like falling asleep, and it won’t hurt at all** are the words wrapped around his ankle – the same one this man had touched – like a band.

Tony’s imagined this moment many times. Had wondered if it would come about in a hospital, or after one of Howard’s attacks. Had used to, when he was far younger, picture his soulmate bursting in through the front door, stopping Howard’s fists and rage with fists and rage of his own, calming him before whisking him off somewhere safe. Together. Has waited eighteen years for it.

Well, death, he supposes, is safe.

The man is unconsciously delivering on a promise he had never actually made.

Tony wishes he could deliver back.

He struggles to tilt his head, just enough to get his tongue working. The man’s eyes minutely widen, his hands automatically reaching out to help (how did such a good guy end up in a situation like this? What a dork), and when he’s in position Tony tries to think of something meaningful to say because he won’t be able to say a lot, just needs something to let this man know who he is, thank him for what he’s done-

“C-cu-ut him onc’more,” he chokes out – God he’s so tired, this is _not_ what he wants to say but _he wants it to happen_ – sucks in another breath, “fer’me.” _Across the throat, the arm, stab him in the stomach, make him hurt like he hurt me please I love you-_

The man’s hands jolt under his head, a horrified _“No”_ escaping his lips like a nightmare but Tony can’t keep his head up any longer. It hits the desk hard at the same time something loud echoes in his ears – something smashing? Wood shattering? An anguished _howl_ breaks out (are there wolves now?), someone shouting “Bruce!” in a loud commanding tone-

Tony really, really doesn’t care.

Strong, unusually hot (or maybe he’s just cold) arms are sweeping under him, pulling him in towards yet more warmth (too much)-

Tony closes his eyes, because it’s just like falling asleep, and it won’t hurt at all.


	6. I'm not worth this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6: Serial Killer; A gift

* * *

* * *

 

 

**6**

 

When you’re an adult, these things aren’t supposed to happen.

When you’re old enough, _big enough,_ to fight back, these things aren’t supposed to happen.

Tony is nineteen-years-old, for God’s sake.

When your father (who all you want is to fucking _love you_ ), tells you to _come here_ , when the man you consider an uncle (who actually _does_ love you, you think), gives you proud eyes and beckons-

It doesn’t matter how old you are.

It doesn’t matter that you know better.

It doesn’t matter that your body is _screaming_ , that your mind is _sobbing_.

Their hands are all over you, their mouths are against you, mixed whispers of praises and hate-

(Nips at his soulmark, arched along his hip – **I have something for you –** though same words whispered mockingly hot against his ear)

You can’t say no, just think it.

And thinking it doesn’t make it stop.

* * *

 

_(“It’s your soulmark,” his mother says when he’s five, curious about the words printed so boldly on his skin that don’t come off with soap like ink does. She’s smiling, soft and beautiful, and hugs him close. “It means that you have a soulmate – your one true person in life who is going to love you and want you no matter what.” Tony likes the sound of that._

_“They’re just words,” his father tells him at twelve, when his mother is lowered into the cold hard ground in a casket as white as the snow that falls. “Words that are just empty promises of a future that doesn’t exist.” And he thinks that might be true, as he drops a rose into the hole.)_

* * *

 

Every morning, when he wakes up, Tony allows himself a few brief seconds to wish that he had died in his sleep. That the Merchant of Death (Manhattan hasn’t had a legitimate serial killer since Captain America; the media is so excited they jump at the chance to give the high-society murderer a savvy, catchy name. Tony thinks it fits, really – a $100 bill had been found stuffed in Senator Stern’s throat last week, along with all ten of his unattached fingers) had chosen him as a target and snuck into the manor to slit his throat (and maybe something a little more showy – his heart in his mouth? Poetry could be written about that).

But only a few brief seconds. Because it’s not Howard or Obadiah that walk in in the mornings, but Jarvis, with his kindly smiles and gentle affection and a tray consisting of jelly toast and the entire pot of coffee – Jarvis who doesn’t know what happens at night when he goes home, for which Tony is forever thankful.

Tony’s the heir to Stark Industries and all its billions, the world’s next genius warmonger, and he plays that part well because he can’t afford not to. Slides into a power suit and turns away from the mirror so he can’t see the bite marks littering his body, straightens the constricting tie and slips on his shoes before dashing out the door. Pausing, as he always does, to nudge Dummy with his toe in greeting, and smiling, as he always does, when all his mother’s old Chihuahua does is huff and roll over. A smile that falls from his face when he steps off the final stair.

The chauffer waiting for him at the car is new – Tony’s own height, with fluffy brown hair that flips in the wind and dark sunglasses that shade his eyes. The man’s lips are pressed together tightly, and Tony immediately respects that – several unmatched people in service business prefer to not speak, or be spoken to, in custom that if it is their soulmate they are serving, that they not discover it while working. A handful of maids, drivers, and cooks have tightened their lips around him in his lifetime. It will be a quiet a drive.

_(Time to remember last night, because his mind is a fucking traumatized traitor that won’t shut up)_

He starts at the warm hand that cradles his elbow, steadying him as he lowers himself into the car. When he shoots a look at the driver, the tight lips are quirked in a small, amused smile.

* * *

 

Howard hates Tony.

Howard makes s _ure_ Tony knows that Howard hates Tony.

Howard locks his office door, leaves the blinds open on the 73rd floor, and fucks him against the window until he’s crying because his body has started to believe he wants it.

Obie loves Tony.

Obie makes _sure_ Tony knows that Obie loves Tony.

Obie holds Tony in his arms after he’s done with Howard, smooths his hair back from his face and presses reverent kisses to his neck as he slides inside and out, slow and gentle.

It makes his head hurt.

He leaves for lunch with the blueprints in his mind of what they’ve demanded (asked) him to make, hesitating only for a second when he sees a different driver from this morning. A stoic man with no shades, no expression at all, no hand to offer balance.

(And then he gets in, because he has an hour and _his head hurts,_ and he wants a grilled chicken salad (hamburger) and tea (coke) and enough time to draft up something that will make tonight hurt less).

* * *

 

_(“Do you think it will be a present?” Tony asks his mother. His father’s away and Jarvis is stringing popcorn for the tree, and both adults laugh at his question as he points to the words on his hip. “A puppy? Do you think they got me a puppy?”_

_“Perhaps Santa will bring you a puppy,” Jarvis offers, and Tony makes a face at that, because his father would probably let him keep a puppy from his soulmate, but definitely won’t from Santa._

_His mother’s loving fingers card through his hair. “Whatever it is they have for you, love,” she smiles, “will be the best thing you have ever gotten.”)_

* * *

 

“I have something for you.”

Tony has heard those words before – over and over again, sometimes in bed, sometimes in this very office.

So when he pushes open the door to his father’s office, it takes him a few slow seconds to process that those words were not from a voice he had ever heard before.

And that both his father and Obadiah are tied to their expensive leather desk chairs, clear tape over their mouths, shirts stained with blood.

The man standing behind them is the driver from this morning – suit jacket gone, his own white shirt completely clean of the scarlet stains, his lips still ticked up in the same amused smirk as he twirls a knife in his hands. Green eyes are locked onto Tony, unrelenting and unnervingly sincere.

**I have something for you.**

The drafted ideas flutter to the floor from his hands.

His _soulmate._

“You don’t have to say anything,” the man says softly, lifting his blade to drag it along Obie’s bare head – Tony watches, stunned and fascinated, at the blood that pops up. “You don’t need to. I just wanted to give this to you, Tony. Unless you have a request,” he adds quickly, looking down at Obie, over at Howard – both men are struggling. “I’ve never been in a position to give anyone a request. If you have one, anything at all, it’s yours. Name it.”

_(There are hands, heavy hands, familiar hands, holding down his hips. There are lips, thin lips, smiling lips, that kiss over his body. Two sets of each, every night, every time. “It’s your soulmark,” his mother says. “Empty words,” his father growls. “I have something for you,” Obie teases, grinding in hard. “The best thing you have ever gotten.”)_

There’s blood dripping onto the floor. “I’m not worth this,” he whispers, tongue burning, mind screaming.

It _hurts,_ and for a minute, the muffled whimpers of pain from his father and Obie become overwhelming.

And then there are hands cradling his face. Warm, calloused, wet-with-blood hands holding him in gentle tightness, brushing the liquid across his skin over and over as the thumbs swish back and forth in shocky movements, forcing Tony to look up into the darting eyes of his (fucking) soulmate that rapidly search his.

_“_ Fuck _,”_ the man breathes, sounding as stunned as Tony is. “ _Fuck._ You… I can’t … this… _Tony.”_ His name is said like a prayer, and it’s all  he can do not to fall into this man. _(Your one true person in life)._

“I’m not,” he’s muttering. “I’m not. _Please._ You’ll get caught, they’ll kill you, don’t – _please, I’m not-” Don’t go away!_

“Shh, shh.” The hushing is gentle, the grip on his face is firm. The green eyes have gone from wondering and soft to hard and angry, a different sort of rage than Tony is used to seeing from Howard. “You don’t say those things. Alright? I never want to hear you say that again, Tony. Christ. _Ever_. You’re worth this – _everything._ You’ve _always_ been worth it.” The lips against his forehead are sudden, too quick to shy from ( _no)_ , are soft, different, and replaced quickly by a hard, hot forehead. They share a breath, then another – _how is he calming down_? “I was going to do this anyway, but for you, for you I wanted to make a show. I don’t get caught, Tony.” He closes his eyes against the vibrancy. “That’s alright. Shh. Just tell me what you want.” Another breath. “Please. Let me give this to you.”

_(The best thing you have ever gotten)._

His eyes open again. The man is still looking at him, determined and affectionate and calm, blocking the other two men from his view.

There are blueprints on the floor. He c _an’t._

“Okay.”

* * *

 

The noise that Howard makes when the knife is wrenched in his gut is nothing like the sound that he makes when he comes, and it’s another notch on the list of things Tony is grateful for.

He had wanted it to be slow, their deaths, and so that is what had been given.

His soulmate rams the knife viciously into Howard’s body nineteen times, growls into his father’s ear almost too low to hear (he still does) “what kind of man hurts his son? What kind of man fucks his child in his own office, in his own bed? What kind of father tells his son that he’s. not. _worth it_?” In spite of amount, Howard bleeds sluggishly.

Obadiah’s neck creaks dangerously under the weight of the man’s large hands, eyes bulging, before there’s a loud, wet pop. Again, his soulmate speaks, gentle crooning words that are wicked. “It’s okay, it’s okay. He loves you, he wanted this to be a little slow, so that you would _enjoy it._ It’s _love,_ Obadiah. Can’t you feel it?”

“And just think,” he announces loudly to them both, a hard smile. “Someone could walk in at any moment and find us, _save you,_ only … they won’t. Because you requested _privacy_ for today. Uh-oh.”

(There should be some sort of remorse here, Tony’s mind tells him. He should care. That’s his _father. Whoheldhishipsandbithisneckandmadehimwantit)_

It’s only when the man is spreading documents across Howard’s cleaned off desk, shooting him small, dizzying glances, that Tony realizes he’s watching the Merchant of Death.

“My name’s Bruce.” It’s offered with a shy smile – all the anger, all the violence of before is gone. All that stands before Tony is a sheepish, almost embarrassed looking man with a soft body and green eyes that spark every time they land on him. “Come with me?” _Please?_

This morning, Tony had wished he had died.

He walks out alive, hand around Bruce’s wrist, in the shadow of death, instead.


	7. You are everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's POV of all parts.

* * *

* * *

 

 

**1**

 

**_I never wanted to meet you._ **

The words have defined Bruce Banner’s entire life.

They traced down the inside of his wrist like an unbleeding cut, a little wobbly, as if their writer’s hands shook over every letter – thin, like eternally faded ink that wouldn’t go the extra mile and just _disappear._

(Sometimes, Bruce felt bad for thinking such a thing, for spending nights staring at his soulmark, willing the damned lettering away with every ounce of passion in his body. His soulmate, his mind would reason at those times, could just be scared, or confused, or broken in some way. But those thoughts rarely lasted long enough for real consideration, as the pure _agony_ that ran through his veins at the thought of his soulmate suffering any bout of hardship to make them so much like _him_ gutted). (It would be less painful to be gutted).

There were lines that bordered the words on either side – tiny permanent scratches because Bruce was only human. Scratches for the soulmate that didn’t want him, for the mother who had died and left him too, for the father that hated him just as much. No scratch for Betty, because by the time her pitying look had become a normal occurrence in his life, he had found something _better,_ something _meaningful_ to spend his waking hours toward other than dreading meeting the person who had _never wanted to meet him._

Though he had no official practice, Bruce ( _Doctor Banner_ , because he _could_ make something out of his life from nothing, he _could_ ) knew the small, secluded doctor’s office like the back of his hand, often taking over for Doctor Hammer’s patients when the other man traveled for conferences (priorities). They were all high-class, from celebrity socialites to heirs of major corporations, but they weren’t horrible – the office catered toward actual illnesses instead of the usual elective surgeries and perfection-seeking experimental treatments. Every eye he met here was scared, beaten down (or breaking) under the realization that money and fame could not cheat death. A lesser man would have taken their horror as a triumph, taken glee in watching them fall, but Bruce only ever wanted to shoulder them and get them back up.

A weakness, maybe, but he wasn’t his father, and he understood all too well how it felt to have the universe hate you.

Tony Stark’s file was thick and heavy in his hands; the only living heir to the richest man on the planet, the privacy of his medical records was an illusion that made Bruce’s teeth painfully grind – the teenager’s image was on the front of one tabloid or another at least once a week with screaming insensitive headlines – _“Stark Heir’s Cancer Shocker!”, “Howard Stark’s Son – Dying!”, “Stark Son Rushed to Hospital – is this the last time?”, “Heir Dying! What will become of Stark Industries now?”_ There was even a website, funded by visitors and highly successful, that hosted bets on how long the boy had left to live.

(They weren’t incorrect, however disgusting they were, and that made it worse. Small Cell Lung Cancer, at the damned extensive stage, and the kid was barely responding to treatment anymore. What made it worse was that it had been ignored by his parents (as was so often the case, the richer a person was), until it had gotten to the point where he had been coughing up blood at parties where it couldn’t be ignored. He might have had a better chance if-).

(Hammer’s notes were cruel and discouraging – he attributed Tony’s decreased reaction to treatment as a result of his poor attitude, his refusal to take medicines and stick to his regimen because he was cocky. The doctor’s words read more like a whining excuse for bullying by a schoolyard boy than the valid complaints of a professional; Bruce mentally trashed them – Hammer was worthless as a healer, good at spinning words for money but not for cures, and Bruce didn’t believe for a second that this kid was anything other than scared or defeated (and damn, did he hope it was the former. They could work with the former).

He opened the door to the room without thinking about it, eyes scanning over the more helpful notes of the nurse as he stepped from the cold hallway into the warm room. _Tires easily, prone to dizziness, no longer finds certain foods appetizing_ , _not sleeping well_ – all common. _Parental involvement decreasing, no company during treatment, no mention of friends, asks to bring his dog –_ huh. The last notation was marked through with red ink, with a small note in Hammer’s writing that stated an enforced _No_. It made him frown. A child with no attending family or friends that had the room to himself for hours a day should be able to bring in his dog, rules be damned. They had been bent before, for other patients, fucking Hammer-

The door clicked shut with a firm, hard snap, startling Bruce from his thoughts as he finally looked up, realizing he was standing in his destination and his patient was watching him. _Moron_ , he scolded himself, unable to stop the embarrassed grin from growing on his lips as he closed the folder and took in the sight of the tense Tony Stark.

He was pale, blatantly so under thinning strands of near-black hair still on his head and the room’s unforgiving lights. His eyes were brown, narrowed with the cocky attitude that set Hammer off so violently, but Bruce could see the glimmers of despair so common in his work lurking in the back, pulling his expression straight and hopeless even as he cocked an eyebrow. (And that. That was what Bruce needed to see – questioning, not acceptance – a sign of life.)

“Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly, voice soft. “I swear I was paying attention.”

Tony’s narrow eyes widened drastically, his mouth dropping open, and before Bruce could really think he was darting forward, the folder smacking to the floor as his mind surged into doctor mode, cataloguing the sudden, shallow panting breaths spasming from Tony’s chest, the color that had been zapped from his cheeks, and the shattered look that had overtaken his eyes. Bruce’s hands cupped his face, thumbs smoothing along the rise his cheekbones as he tried to warm his skin, pull the kid back to him. _What the hell?_

“Tony!” He was hyperventilating, small whines hissing out with each breath as his broken lungs fought to keep going. Bruce leaned in closer, trying to force eye contact. “Hey, hey now. It’s okay. You need to breathe. Okay, Tony? You need to calm down. You’re alright. Everything’s alright. Can you calm down? Deeps breaths. Watch me.” He tightened his hands a little. _Come on, buddy._ “ Deep ones, there you go.”

He watched avidly Tony sucked in one hard breath, holding it for a few seconds before huffing it out and sucking in another to hold longer, his own lungs aching in sympathy for harshness of the effort. It wasn’t ideal, but Tony’s eyes were darting now, locking onto his with a sort of desperateness as his boney hands surged up, clasping onto his wrists tightly. _Fuck,_ what _was_ this? Hell, he’d fight to let the kid bring the dog, he obviously needed something-

“I never wanted to meet you.”

It was like the world stopped, time pouring cold water through his veins as the words sunk in with the tightening of the fingers around his wrists. **I never wanted to meet you.** Bruce wanted to jerk away, wanted to run, scream, _hit something until it busted into tiny, bleeding pieces,_ but then Tony was falling forward, obviously spent, his thin shoulders shaking as his body trembled violently, and all Bruce could do was fold him against his chest, mindful of the tubes and lines.

Was he holding his ailing teenage patient he wanted to help, or the horrified soulmate he hated?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tony chanted, over and over, small. A hot tear hit his neck and Bruce’s eyes squeezed shut.

He drew him in closer.

* * *

* * *

 

 

**2**

 

The world was an empty, dark place, more obsessed with war and victory than hope and life.

The poor deserved their wretched, hard lives. The wounded needed to get over themselves, stand up in their broken bodies and get jobs. Robbery was for the careless, rape was for the sinful, and death was your fault, please don’t ask for funds for a burial. It was crushing to live in, to live under.

Ironically, it was so very easy to buy a gun.

The Stark name was printed on every banner, every building, every newspaper and report on the television – the leader of the death parade. Every person with the Stark name walked the world decked in jewels and gold, their skin golden from the people’s praises, pockets stuffed with the money they made from the people they destroyed. They were untouchable to the things they touched, but every eye open could see them.

(Bruce had waited in the alley a block down from the fundraiser, knew the Starks would walk back this way when it was over, confident in their protection in a way they had no right to be. The gun felt warm in his hands, the way his mother’s hand had felt warm in the hospital before it hadn’t. He couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see anything other than the damp street and the shadows coming closer).

Howard Stark was at the front of every weapon, every war, every campaign for death, and when he made it ten feet into the alley, two figures just behind him, Bruce lifted the gun and fired.

It was only when the great man stumbled the ground, hot crimson red blossoming out across the lower half of his pristine white shirt, that Bruce blinked and truly felt the weight of the metal in his grip even as he automatically aimed it toward the two Starks that remained standing.

Fuck. Fuck, he killed him. Was killing him. Shot him. Howard Stark was gurgling on the ground, his body trying to lift only to fall flat and then try again like a fish out of water, hand glistening with the blood he was trying to keep inside as he gasped. The wife – Maria, her name was Maria, everyone knew it was Maria – shrieked a whimper in horror, the sound scratching across the horror flooding his mind.

“Shut up!” He screamed, twitching the gun toward her on reflex. “Do you think I won’t shoot you?” Would he? Could he? Could he fire this gun again, send another bullet, take another life? Could he do that?

He blinked as the last figure stepped forward, just enough to block the woman from the path of the bullet he hadn’t let loose yet. Anthony. Oh, did Bruce know him. Knew his face, his name, his accomplishments, _his failures of life_. Howard Stark’s legacy, a son to carry on the name, the tradition. His fingers tightened on the gun again.

“Please, we can get you money,” the woman pleaded, hands grasping at her son’s jacket, trying to pull him back. “Any amount you want. We’ll pay it.”

The chuckle that raced up his throat and through his mouth was rough, sour on his tongue. _Money?_ Money would fix things, maybe, but it wouldn’t heal anything. It wouldn’t soothe the loss and suffering of the people below the Starks. It wouldn’t bring his mother back. “Money?” He choked, sharing. “You think money will fix all of the wrongs your family has done to this world? I don’t want your money.” His eyes shot back to her son, anger pumping into his chest. “I want your _life.”_

_You’ve destroyed everything. You’ve taken everything._

“You have it,” Anthony whispered. A burst of cold hit Bruce’s shoulders at the soft words. “You’ve always had it.”

 **You have it,** the words on the arch of his foot read. He knew them so clearly, had spent every night of his life staring at them. **You have it.**

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elder Stark move, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The gun suddenly felt too heavy.

 _“_ Son of a bitch _,”_ he breathed, his disbelief echoed in Anthony’s eyes.

_It’s you._

He took a stunned step forward, feeling an intense need to be closer to the other man.

_How is it you?_

The echoing wail of a fired gun cracked through the air, and he jolted.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**3**

 

The night is cold and people are drunk and he’s only here because Betty made him come, except now Betty’s off with some boy she likes and Bruce can’t leave because she has the keys.

Everyone’s drunk and handsy and loud but at least the balcony is empty. Quiet. Perfect.

He sits on the ground and slips the needle from his pocket (he had wanted to do this back at the dorm. His roommate’s gone for the weekend and no one would have been bothered. Stupid Betty).

He hates college.

 _You’re nothing,_ his father had hissed in his ear only hours ago, and God Bruce has no idea why he had wanted to call him. _Nothing. You can achieve anything in this life, can grab every accomplishment and every dream. But you will always be nothing, Robert._

He hates life.

It’s October tenth, warm in Southern California, and his mother has been dead for fifteen years told and he had decided to call his father.

Flexing his fist, he slips the needle into the vein of his elbow and punches the plunger relentlessly, swallowing the painful burn and the high that follows.

He _hates_ life.

Mom’s dead.

His arms grow heavy but his head feels nice (oh, now he’s laying down. Okay, body. Do what you want). It’s quiet and that’s awesome. How much was in there?

Wow, tired.

_Mom’s dead._

How-much?

_Mom’s dead, Robert. Bruce._

_Robert Bruce Banner. Mom’s dead._

_Still dead._

That’s… not funny. Fuck, that’s not funny.

Something kicks him, funny and a little hard – Bruce’s eyes snap open, angry or sad or whatever, instantly greeted with the glazed brown of the boy who kicked him.

His body begins to shake under the effort to keep itself aware. He closes his eyes again, he’s so tired – _how much was in there_?

_Mom’s dead and you’re at a party meeting a guy. Nothing._

How much-

“What did you take?” The stranger asks. Bruce’s eyes open again, pulling themselves this time, because for some reason that seems importa-

 **What did you take?** his words have always asked, spanning across his stomach in their avid curiosity.

Oh. Well.

Fuck you too, life.

 _You’re nothing._ His head is spinning. Or is that his body – can his body spin?

How much was _in there?_

**What did you take?**

_You’re nothing._

Bruce tries to laugh, only it comes out as a sob, _he hates life._

**What did you take?**

He tries to answer slow. It certainly comes out that way. Ha.

“N-not enough to hallu…cinate you.”

So fucking tired. His stomach hurts. He wants to sleep. Just a little. Just now.

_“No.”_

**What did you take?**

_Nothing._

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**4**

 

 

Howard Stark was the celebrity of science, the benefactor the upcoming minds, the reason half of the military contracts even extended out to people like him.

And an Alpha.

(Every time Bruce had come out of the daze of his heat, snapping into small moments of lucidity, it was to the man fucking him over his desk in the lab, or in the backseat of a limo, or against the front door of a condo, or into the soft plush pillows of a too-large bed. Each time to the grunted, lustful words of, “So wet, so perfect. My beautiful Omega. So hungry for it. Going to knot you, fill you. Give you what you need. My child. Give you my child”. He hadn’t been able to pull away, to tell him no – every thrust felt wonderful, every praise sang into Bruce’s body. “Good boy, good boy.” No one ever thought Bruce was a good boy.).

Howard Stark was married. Married to his soulmate, a beautiful woman who stood at the side of such a powerful man, who took the power of that name and used to highlight charities, to start a foundation, to do _good_ where her husband, her soulmate, had only taken power. Bruce had always admired her.

(Howard had knotted Bruce, had filled him over and over. The first person to ever take him in a heat, to ever attempt to truly breed him at all. Had growled and sunk his teeth into Bruce’s neck in throes of his final orgasm and whispered promises of bonding that Bruce had been too drunk on pleasure and pheromones to comprehend and refuse).

The fact that Bruce was responsible for the outcast and downfall of such a woman sickened him.

(What Howard said in rut was what he meant out of it. “I’ve always wanted an Omega,” he whispered, kissing into Bruce’s hair as his hand traveled lower. “Deserved one. _Needed one_. And here you are, giving yourself to me so willingly. You’re incredible, so intelligent, so beautiful. An investment, Bruce.” Kissed again. “We will be bonded.”)

And in the ballroom of the Stark mansion, two weeks later, they were legally bonded, Omega to Alpha.

The problem was, Bruce didn’t want Howard.

He didn’t want this life at all.

It was the way of this world, of society in this day, to value Alpha-Beta, Alpha-Omega bonding over the connection of soulmates. Soulmarks, the words every person bore that alerted them to the existence of their match, were faulty. It wasn’t uncommon for them to connect together two Alphas, or (worse yet) two Omegas. Such couples were incapable of producing children, and therefore their union served no actual purpose outside of validating lust. Those who had soulmates outside of their class who wanted to marry were allowed, of course, but more in indulgence than actual acceptance.

(Around the shell of Bruce’s ear, almost too tiny to be legible, his soulmark read **It is very nice to meet the replacement.** It was insulting, he knew. It was a promise of nothing. But Bruce wanted to meet that person, wanted to wrap his arms around them and hug them and stay there. Wanted to be in the presence of the one person who would understand him, know him, want him around anyway. Where the world wanted him locked to an Alpha, Bruce wanted himself tied to his soulmate).

(Jarvis, Howard’s aged butler, was the only person in his new life who knew. Knew about his soulmark, knew that he didn’t want Howard. Unbound and untied Omegas, however, had no choice. “Keep your chin up,” Jarvis said during whatever scarce moment Howard was away from him. “Nothing is permanent”. It was a laughable notion, and painful. But at least Bruce had a friend).

Howard’s arm was heavy and possessive around his shoulders as they stood amongst the crowd of their guests (Howard’s guests. Bruce’s friends hadn’t warranted an invitation, he felt so small here, felt angry, _he didn’t want this_ , couldn’t stop this), and so when the older man whirled around to greet someone new, Bruce had no choice but to move with him.

“Ah, Anthony!” Howard bellowed out, and Bruce seized under his arm. . “Late, as usual, but what else could we expect from you? Come and greet my Omega.”

Anthony. Maria’s son. The Alpha child of an Alpha-Beta pair that had surprised the world. The Alpha son of the woman Howard had thrown out and replaced with Bruce.

His eyes, alive and dangerous, were completely hers.

Bruce watched silently as the younger Stark approached, stepping through the parting crowd like he was Moses to the sea. He was pristine in his tuxedo, every inch the heir to the Stark name, smirk slithered across his lips like he knew he was too good for the people in this room – too good for _him._ His eyes traveled from his father to Bruce, sweeping over him with the usual Alpha yearning, but something different, something more intense. Bruce swallowed heavily, absently grateful when Howard’s attention was grabbed by another.

“It is very nice to meet the replacement.” Anthony took his hand, brushing his lips over his knuckles in the traditional greeting of a new Omega to the family. He fought the weakness in his knees at the feeling of contentment the movement brought, and then tensed as the greeting finally caught up with his brain.

**It is very nice to meet the replacement.**

He couldn’t breathe.

God, _why?_

 “A replacement would have more value than me,”  he pushed out, unable to make his voice louder than a whisper. It was the response he had always given his mark, almost reflexive to say it now, but tears flooded and burned his eyes as the hand holding his froze, too.

His soulmate _(his soulmate!)_ ’s eyes darted up, disbelieving and searching.

Bruce swallowed again – his _soulmate_ – and tightened his grip on Anthony’s hand as Howard turned his attention back toward them.

_It’s me._

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**5**

 

 

On Bruce’s chest, in confident, slightly pleading strokes, the words “ **Cut him once more, for me** ” slither in an S over his heart in thick, meaningful black.

They look like a tattoo, as broad and artfully positioned as they are. They’ve inspired the rest of the ink that he’s had inked into his skin, each done with the same thick black, though none have been allowed near those words.

Words. His soulmark. The words of his soulmate, printed on his chest from birth – a _request_ from his soulmate, for him.

They’ve inspired more than tattoos, though the tattoos are how he had met Steve Rogers.

There are official mobs in Manhattan – crime families that have been around for decades upon decades, Italians who like the term “mafia” better, gangs who like to think they have more power than they do. Steve’s group is different, not official, but not _not_ official, either. They’re dangerous, ruthless when they feel the need, but caring, protective of each other. Bruce is attracted to them from the moment he sees Steve lean over the brush a reverent hand down Bucky’s arm, where a thin, long soulmark drips down in scrappy lettering, sold when he sees Sam lightly kiss the one that travels across Natasha’s knuckles. His soulmate will ask him to hurt someone for them, and Bruce had decided years ago that he would do anything for his second-half – this group will get him closer, if not directly to, that opportunity. And they value their soulmates.

It’s perfect.

Steve utilizes the scientific skills Bruce never took to college (what can a classically educated, learned-tempered man offer to someone who needs physical, violent vengeance?), asks him to make everything from a bomb to blow up the port of a rival to a paralytic drugs to contain but not knock out an opponent. Bruce gives him everything, basks in his affectionate smiles and touches (he’s never had friends before) and soaks in the celebratory embraces Steve shares with Bucky (they know he likes to watch and they know why, so they let him see more than he should and never let him apologize for it).

The night Bucky and Clint are attacked by Howard Stark’s men – the night Bucky loses the arm that bears Steve’s words – is the night Steve comes to him, drenched in his soulmate’s blood, and asks him if he can make an anesthetic that can kill.

“Not painful,” Steve, even in his quiet, burning rage, is quick to press. “Something slow, but gentle. I don’t want it to hurt. Just be drawn out.” His jaw clenches, blue eyes flashing with something that mixes between fury and guilt. “Stark has a son, eighteen, nice enough – he’s Stark’s future, his legacy. I want him to lose that; I want him to _watch_ that slip away. But I don’t want to hurt the boy.” He tilts his head. “Understand?”

Steve has killed children before, as punishment to their parents. He hates it (they all fucking hate it), tries to make it quick each time, as painless as possible. Stark’s son may be eighteen, not far from their own twenty-six, but in terms of life, he’s still a child.

 Bruce understands.

It’s easy enough to make. It feels right.

Two nights later, with Bucky in a private hospital room under Coulson’s watchful eye and Clint limping between Sam and Bruce, they wait for the butler to leave for the night, and they sneak into Stark’s mansion.

It’s stupidly easy. For a family who risks their safety by tempting the hands of the demons of this city, their security is horrifically lax. Natasha mutters about it under her breath in rapid Russian that makes Sam grin as she picks at the lock of the front door until it swings quietly open to an empty entry way. Steve doesn’t hesitate to walk in, and so neither do they.

Maria Stark, crossing the hall from one room to the next, is the first they hit. Sam’s knife glints right before he slams it into her stomach, covering her mouth to muffle the reactive, agonized scream that erupts from her throat. Her body jerks in his hold as she tries to struggle, but with her wound she’s easy enough to drag toward the study where they know Howard Stark is working. She’s bleeding heavily, and the pained shriek that growls low in her throat when Sam knocks intentionally against the knife is what alerts their target to their presence.

Stark’s face pales instantly, and Bruce shakes his head as Steve’s expression turns hard. Bastard never stood a chance.

“Get the boy,” the blonde hisses to Natasha, who nods. Bruce passes her the syringe – he has never been able to deal the killing blow to a child – and she disappears as Stark’s face pales further.

“Steve,” he whispers. “Steve, don’t-.”

“Don’t _what,_ Howard?” Steve snarls, and the man flinches. “Don’t hurt your family? But isn’t that what you’ve done to me?”

“Steve. I didn’t – we didn’t know-.”

 _“You did know!”_ Steve roars, and the man jumps. “You were _there_ when I found Bucky, Howard! You were standing right fucking there. And still you went after him.” Maria moans again, drawing Stark’s attention, and Sam takes the opportunity to throw her onto the expensive-looking couch; her blood instantly darkens the cushions. Bruce doesn’t think she can move even if she wants to. Stark’s face is tense, his body actively straining, but he doesn’t try to get up to go to her. If he knows Steve, then he knows better. Knows better than to think that any of this will end well at all.

There’s a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Steve’s attention turns toward the door. “I almost lost him because of your greed, Howard,” he growls quietly. “I don’t think that would have happened, if you truly appreciated what loss feels like.”

“ _Steve_.” Stark’s ignored as they all turn to watch Natasha step through the door, a slim, lanky body wrapped around her own that she croons to in soft Russian every other step. Clint is there immediately, helping her shift the drugged teenager more against him than her with kind hands. Sam steps away as they slowly move forward, and Bruce can’t help the flinch as the boy’s eyes, still alert, flicker over his mother’s dying body and the pool of blood it sits in. He shouldn’t have to see that.

“Sam, tie him up,” Steve orders jerking his chin toward Stark even as he moves toward the son. Sam darts to follow the order, but Bruce watches as Steve approaches the boy, watches as the hardness melts away to gentle kindness as he reaches to cup the teenager’s face in his hands.

“Hey, Tony,” he says softly. “I know you’re feeling out of it, and that’s okay. I just want you to know that what’s happening, all of this right now? This isn’t your fault. We’re settling something with your parents, that’s all. We’re not angry with you, and we don’t want to hurt you. There’s no need to be scared. Nothing is going to happen to you tonight, alright?” Steve says the words clearly, but he’s obviously not expecting an answer. He brushes his fingers through Tony’s hair. A frown flickers across his face at the sight of something, but it fades away when Tony’s eyes track back to his. “Clint, can you get him up on the desk? I need Natasha over with Sam.”

“Might need help.” Bruce is already coming forward, sweeping under Tony’s heavy arm as Natasha ducks out, following Steve back to Stark. Clint’s ribs are still messed up, and while normally they leave the kids to him and his friendly nature, Tony’s too heavy for his damaged bones. Bruce bends to catch Tony behind the knees, carefully sweeping him into his arms and against his chest, barely managing to catch his balance as Clint scoffs, stepping away to sweep papers and baubles off the desk to clear it. Bruce lowers Tony gently, Clint careful to grab his head to keep it from slamming down, and they arrange him so that he’s perfectly in Howard’s view.

His eyes, however, are back on his mother, who is still managing to draw tiny, forceful breaths that are probably just automatic at this point; the couch is soaked. It makes Bruce’s gut drop, but there’s no sign of anguish on Tony’s face. Just some sort of mild, distant consideration. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the drug, or if it’s Tony’s natural state.

He steps back, then, shaking his head – this is why he doesn’t get involved with the innocents that get dragged into this world. Too easy to get attached to something that’s just going to slip away.

“Please don’t do this.” Stark’s talking again, back to pleading. Bruce pictures Bucky’s dazed and lost eyes staring blankly into Steve’s own at the hospital, most of his arm missing, and wonders why the man thinks he will get any remorse, any mercy, from Steve’s unforgiving gaze.

“It’s already happening, Howard.” There’s a shrill, wheezing breath from the couch, and then silence. Maria’s gone. “See? You tried to take what was mine, and now I’m taking away what’s yours. Maria might not have been your soulmate, but she was still your wife. That must’ve hurt, right? And _Tony.”_ Steve steps away, allows Stark a full view of his incapacitated son. “I know what the future means to you, Howard.”

“ _Please_ -.”

“Nat?”

Quick as a flash, the redhead is on one side of Stark and then the other, slicing down on each of his wrists, hard enough to draw blood, light enough that it will take him a while to bleed out. Long enough for him to watch.

“We had a deal, Howard. My family, your family. Safe from each other. And you went after _Bucky.”_

Flesh hits flesh – Howard doesn’t quite manage to double over because of the ropes, but it’s a near thing, his gut had to be aching after that blow.

(Sometimes, when things get particularly violent, Bruce wonders if this is what his soulmark had actually meant. If his soulmate is actually asking him to hurt someone. In this day, in this city, it’s the obvious choice, but his words truly can mean anything. They can mean “cut my big toenail once more time”, for Christ’s sake, or the dog’s toenails, or the cat’s, even, despite that he hates cats. They can mean something completely innocent, completely different from where Bruce has taken them, and when he meets his soulmate with their twelve cats it’s possible that they will be horrified by what he is, what he does. If maybe he’s let the words take him too far, too much.)

(But that’s only sometimes. Because this entire world, not just this city, is fucked up. Because he lives with these people; eats early breakfasts with Clint and Coulson and jogs with Steve and massages Natasha’s shoulders and spars with Sam and cooks dinner with Bucky – these people are his friends, his family, and he knows that he’s safe with them, that his soulmate will be safe with them, even though they live their lives in violence and blood – they’re good people. And his soulmate will accept them. Accept _him._ Because life has to work out that way).

In front of him , Bruce sees Tony start to tremble on the desk, reaching the chilling stage of death and somehow still awake, his head turned from his mother’s body and onto his father. Stark is saying something, continuing to plead with Steve, and paying no attention to his fading son, and it brings out an anger in Bruce. Without thinking he steps forward, wrapping a hand gently around Tony’s ankle as he watches the scene play out. He doesn’t know Howard Stark, has been kept from dealings with him because he doesn’t need to be involved, but there’s something about him that makes Bruce want him to die. That doesn’t question whether or not he deserves this punishment (Bucky’s arm is _gone,_ Steve’s words are _gone)_.

He blinks when he feels eyes on him, looking down and noting in surprise that Tony’s looking at him, expression mixed between confused and scared. It makes Bruce’s heart painfully clench, that look, and he squeezes Tony’s ankle, slowly stepping forward and allowing his hand to drag along the teenager’s side, letting him have the minute, soothing sensations of human touch to calm his mind’s fogged perception.

Bruce’s heart _breaks_ at the sight of a lone tear slipping from one swirling brown eye, and gently he brushes it away.

“It’s just like falling asleep,” he assures Tony softly, because it will be, that’s how he created it. Gentle and soft and slow and final, just like sleep, “and it won’t hurt at all. Just like falling asleep. Shh,” he soothes as another tear falls, fights the urge to gather Tony up and hug him. _Fuck._ “It’ll be alright. Close your eyes, Tony. It’s okay. Don’t fight it.” _Please stop fighting it_ , he wants to beg, and doesn’t.

But Tony’s eyes stay open, eyeing Bruce with a new muted expression the struggles to stay awake even as the drug pulls him under. There’s another cry from the corner with Stark, making him flinch.

And then the teen is struggling to tilt his head, jaw twitching like he wants to say something, and Bruce’s eyes widen in surprise at the action even as he automatically moves to help him angle his head so that he can say what he needs. _Final words and all that._

“C-cu-ut him onc’more,” Tony manages to choke out, wet sounding as he peers up at Bruce with wide, fading eyes as he pulls in another breath. “fer’me.”

Under Tony’s head, his hands jerk.

 **Cut him once more, for me** , curving over his heart.

 _“No.”_ The word aches as it pours **from** his mouth; Tony blinks back him, slow and _fucking fond,_ before a heavy, long breath escapes his lips, his head falling back against the desk.

“Bruce?” Clint asks, and he doesn’t _hear it._

 _“No!”_ He swings out, hitting something – the chair smashes into the case of medals against the world, shattering glasses and splintering fragile wood in its wake. Something loud and desperate pushes up from his chest and roars out like a howl, and it **_hurts-_**

“Bruce!” Steve’s voice is commanding, confused, but for the first time Bruce ignores him. Ignores him and pulls Tony from the desk and against his chest, flinching harshly as the teen’s heavy head falls directly on top of his mark.

He runs.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**6**

 

For the entire twenty-three years of his life, the words **I’m not worth this** have spiraled around Bruce’s left ring finger like a staining drop of blood.

The script is elegant, almost as if someone had taken time to carefully paint each letter, but alone the words look so forlorn, so lost.

(He rubs them, from time to time, as if his soulmate will be able to feel his touches and be comforted the warmth. It burns him, that this person who will mean so much to him, feels as ruined and empty as Bruce does. He wishes he could tell them how much they _are_ worth it, whatever it is – how much they mean to him, how he wants to give them the Sun, the Moon, _anything,_ because they are worth _everything_ to Bruce. Promises himself that, when he meets them, he will hold them close every night and tell them over and over how much he loves them).

Some experts would say (have said) that Bruce’s rage has spun from the scenarios he has tied to his soulmark ( _fuck them)_ ; others would say (have said, the one are two who look beyond their papers) that it stems from his father’s abuse and the thick, deep scars crossing wickedly along his back.

In truth, it’s a mixture of both.

Knowing what it’s like to be beaten down and helpless.

Knowing that people are being made to feel worthless.

The papers, the news, the radio, the internet – all media sources have labeled him “The Merchant of Death”, the serial killer who preys on the rich and questionable. The name makes Bruce smile (the last serial killer in Manhattan that had been successfully named was Captain America, who decapitated the rich and thieving to warn them off profiting from the labors of the poor – Bruce doesn’t try to be him, but he respects him) but the definition “the rich and _questionable”_ , makes his teeth grind. _Questionable._ Senator Stern, a highly respected government official, had a taste for skinny, underage girls with large eyes and limbs heavy from forced narcotics – “questionable” implied that there could be a reasoning behind his behavior, something that made it right.

(Bruce had strangled him, slow and taunting, _after_ cutting off his fingers, one by one, which he had stuffed into the good senator’s mouth after his death, along with a $100 bill from the man’s own wallet. Questionable, indeed). (Messy, though at least blood is warm).

When Bruce’s sight had landed on Howard Stark, the country’s billionaire warmonger, as his next target, he hadn’t felt anything different. He had researched, had prepared. Another man who takes money from the pain of others, who makes weapons without thinking of who they hurt – who sells those weapons to terrorists under the table, profiting from betrayal and more innocent, haunting deaths. He’s a deserving mark.

On a night of watching the mansion, he discovers Tony.

Discovers Tony because the lights are on, and the curtains aren’t closed.

Bruce watches as Howard and his CFO (Obadiah Stane. Two targets, not one) ravage the skinny, stone-faced teenager (nineteen. Tony Stark is nineteen, Howard Stark’s only son from his late wife. His only child at all), bite at him, caress him, hold him down and fuck him until his façade breaks into anguished, self-loathing tears. The movements of the two older men are too synchronized for this to be a first time thing, a _rarely-done_ attack.

This is normal.

The only thing that keeps Bruce from breaking into the mansion that night, from killing Stark and Stane and sparing Tony any further torture, is that it would truly spare him nothing.

They disappear from the window, still interlocked, and the binoculars break in Bruce’s hand.

* * *

 

_(“Soulmarks,” his father growls, “are just words. Words that are an empty promise of a future that doesn’t exist.” Bruce watches as his mother flinches at inebriated declaration._

_“Don’t listen to him,” she tells him later, as she tucks him into bed._

_You did, Bruce wants to say, but doesn’t.)_

* * *

 

With falsified identification and an unconscious driver sleeping off his drunken stupor safely in an alley, Bruce dons a chauffer’s uniform and stands beside the limo outside the Stark mansion. Howard Stark’s schedule has been cleared for the day, starting at the hour (this next hour) his son is set to arrive at Stark Industries. It’s the perfect opportunity, the perfect way in.

He’s grateful for the sunglasses that hide his eyes when Tony steps outside, that they block the way his gaze track the slim form walking toward him. He sees Tony’s hesitation at the sight of him – someone unknown is dangerous in this world – and tightens his lips into a straight line, a common move for those in servicing positions who have yet to find their soulmates (it’s archaic, actually, and Bruce has never really seen the point in avoiding any possibility of finding your _soulmate_ , but it’s a custom that’s associated with kind (if unhealthily conservative) people, and as such comes across nonthreatening. The ease he feels when Tony relaxes at the gesture is worth it), and the teenager finally approaches the open door.

_(His crying face, his broken eyes at the hands moving along his body)_

Bruce catches Tony’s elbow as he lowers himself into the car, steadying his balance and allowing a slow (sickened) smirk of amusement to push his lips up at the surprised look he gets for the contact.

(He shouldn’t be surprised).

(Bruce hates wounded people. Not actual wounded people, not actual hate – he hates that they are wounded at all, that the slightest acts of kindness shock them, that a gentle touch would leave them confused; wants to take all those people and put them in the safe place he hasn’t even found to exist yet. He steals glances at Tony the entire drive, catalogues his distant expression, notes the way he sometimes glances back, muddled).

He parks the car in the garage, grabs his bag from the side seat, and moves quickly – the key is to blend, and though you are in a hurry, to bring no attention to yourself. To bring attention is to risk being discovered, and _Bruce does not get caught_ (can’t afford to. It’s never just him riding on this).

The 73rd floor would be ideal – it’s cleared for the day, for the time Howard Stark has claimed to need with his son, and there would be no one to see him. But he can’t force himself there, knowing that Tony is in his father’s office, or in Stane’s office, knowing what’s happening there, and that Bruce can’t yet do anything about it. He has to wait, and in waiting he has to let this happen _last time this is the last time Tony I’m sorry I swear buddy it’s the last time._

(He hates himself for it).

He prints off his documents, his proof of their crimes, his reasoning for their deaths. Not to justify himself – he doesn’t care what they think about him – but so that they will know. So that they will be able to see the true face behind the man they had entrusted their safety to. He’ll leave it splayed out, close to their bodies, and mail another set to the news station, just in case, as he always does.

He has a present for Tony.

He’s never been able to give the victims of his other kills the satisfaction of watching those deaths.

He can do that for Tony.

* * *

 

_(“You will grow into a good man, Bruce,” his mother tells him every night, when his father has stormed away to drink himself to sleep after telling Bruce what a monster he is._

_“How do you know?” His mother is brilliant, but at ten Bruce knows she is biased toward him. Studies have shown that boys grow to be like their fathers – and Brian Banner is not a good man._

_“Because of this.” Her fingernail traces along his soulmark, loving, and he laughs lightly as the sensation tickles his skin. “You will show them, Bruce. You will show them they are worth it.” He would._

_“Who do you think they are?” He whispers, because it’s the universe’s biggest secret, the identity of his soulmate. His mother just smiles._

_“For you, with all of the love you have inside of you? Anyone. Everyone.”_

_“Mo-om,” he laughs again, his face flushing at her compliment, and she echoes it, low and sweet, and leans over to brush a kiss against his cheek, mindful of his broken arm._

_“Someone perfect, Bruce. Someone perfect.”)_

* * *

 

The office reeks of sex – the stench is heavy in the circulated air, and there are sliding smudges of handprints on the middle window.

_He gets so angry during these times. So very. Mother. Fucking. Angry._

“Let you _go?”_ Bruce repeats incredulously – the packing tape whines as he pulls it from the roll, and he smacks it across Stane’s face with exaggerated flourish.

“No.”

He wraps it around the man’s bald head a few more times, nice and tight, to be safe.

In the chair next to Stane’s, just as bound, just as covered, Stark strains valiantly against the bindings, the numerous tiny cuts on his hands pushing slippery blood over the tap, worsening his efforts. It’s almost laughable, the man’s desperateness to get away. Almost.

“ _Stop_. _Moving._ ” He snarls, slapping Stark’s wrist with the sharp edge of the knife – satisfaction burns in his gut at the responding flinch. He brings the blade back over, letting it roam over Stane’s cheek, drawing out a line of blood that smells almost heady. He lets it drip down onto his fingers, mixing with Stark’s – it’s chilly in the office, and the warmth is comforting. Some of it even slips onto his mark – _beautiful._

“It’s horrible feeling powerless, isn’t it?” He asks rhetorically, tips the knife into Stane’s skin again. “Unable to fight me. Unable to s _top me.”_

Outside the office door, the harsh _ding!_ of the elevator rings out. The noise makes both men jerk, and Bruce smile.

“Our guest of honor,” he stage whispers, smile burning into a grin. “I hope you two are entertaining enough on your own – I didn’t bring any popcorn for him. Tell me, do you think he’ll ask me to let you go, or get comfortable to watch?” Stane whines low in his throat – Stark’s glare is far from intimidating. He chuckles, moving to stand between them as the door opens.

“I have something for you,” he announces as Tony steps into the room.

The teen stops in his tracks, brown eyes wide as they survey the scene, lock onto him. He looks tired, Bruce notes, looks beaten down ( _he is beaten down)_ , his lips twitching as if he wants to say something, but can’t figure out what the words should be.

His expression is so lost that it makes Bruce sick.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, trying to soothe him. He lifts the knife to drag along Stane’s head, watches as Tony tracks the movement automatically. “You don’t need to. I just wanted to give this to you, Tony. Unless you have a request,” he adds quickly, the idea forming even as he says it. Tony doesn’t have to just watch; it’s entirely possible he himself had planned ways to kill his abusers himself, had imagined some dark, twisted fantasy of their deaths as they were holding him down. “I’ve never been in a position to give anyone a request. If you have one, anything at all, it’s yours. Name it.” _Anything. Anything you want here, Tony, I will make it happen for you._

Those large brown eyes blink at him wrenchingly, and finally words slip from the teen’s mouth in a barely heard whispers. “I’m not worth this.”

Bruce jolts as if he’s been punched in the gut.

**I’m not worth this.**

The knife hits the floor; Bruce doesn’t even register moving, just knows that he’s in front of Tony when the younger man’s face is between his bloodstained hands. Tony’s trembling, quivers shaking Bruce’s hands even as he tries to quiet them with gentle swirls of his thumbs.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “ _Fuck_. You… I can’t … this… _Tony_.” _Oh my God,_ his mind is saying, words breaking through the otherwise angry noise of his mind. _Oh my God, you. You._

But Tony is still shivering, eyes still wide in shock and denial, his head beginning to shake as his lips continue to form words his breath is struggling to punch out, ““I’m not,” he’s muttering. “I’m not. _Please._ You’ll get caught, they’ll kill you, don’t – _please, I’m not-”_

 _You are!_ His mind roars the argument he’s waited his whole life to give.

“Shh, shh.” Bruce’s grip tightens just a little, just enough to make Tony’s focus come back to him. Not _worth_ it – his blood seethes. “You don’t say those things,” he scolds, “alright? I never want to hear you sa _y_ that again, Tony. Christ. _Ever._ You’re worth this – _everything.” Everything. _“You’ve _always_ been worth it.” Without thinking, he brushes his lips over Tony’s forehead, hard enough to silence, soft enough to touch, pulls them away just as Tony begins to tense so that he can rest his own forehead against him. He breathes slow, deep breaths, urging the other to match him as they share one, and then another. “I was going to do this anyway,” he admits quietly, “but for you, for you I wanted to make a show. I don’t get caught, Tony.” Bruce feels a sense of elation that the other cares if he does that’s dulled to a nameless tender emotion as Tony’s eyes close, overwhelmed. Oh, Tony. “That’s alright,” he soothes. “Shh. Just tell me what you want. Please.

Let me gives this to you.”

* * *

 

Tony does not want them to die quickly as much as he doesn’t want them to stay on this earth for much longer.

A slow, but not slow death. He can provide this.

Bruce palms his knife twice before the thrusts it into Stark’s gut, and wet groan that escapes the man’s mouth through the tape perfectly satisfying.

Tony is nineteen, has spent nineteen years living with this man’s hate riding on his shoulders, filling his lungs – with an overwhelming viciousness, Bruce plunges the knife into his body eighteen more times, relishing the specks of blood that fly up with each withdraw, the sickening, cutting sounds it makes. “What kind of man hurts his son?” He sneers into Stark’s ear as he does it. “What kind of man _fucks his child_ in his own office, in his own bed? What kind of father tells his son that he’s. not. _worth it_?” Bruce knows where to hit, where to cause pain and not instant death – Stark bleeds, but the flow is lazy. It will take him a while to die.

He moves to his next victim.

Under Bruce’s hands, Obadiah’s neck quakes and audibly groans as he squeezes, straining and straining until there’s a loud, wet pop of a shifting tube. He croons to the man, gentle to him as he always was with Tony. “It’s okay, it’s okay. He loves you, he wanted this to be a little slow, so that you would _enjoy it._ It’s _love_ , Obadiah. Can’t you feel it?”

“And just think!” He announces loudly to them both, smiling hard and deadly. “Someone could walk in at any moment and find us, _save you_ , only … they won’t. Because you requested _privacy_ for today. Uh-oh.”

(He says it like a joke, remembers seeing them on Tony from the window, and it’s really, very much _not)._

As the man sit in their chairs, dying, he snatches the incriminating papers of proof from his bag and spreads them across the otherwise empty desk, alternates between them and Tony, who’s still standing by the door, looking a little bit drunk and dazed as he sways slightly on his feet.

(It occurs to Bruce now, at this time and so fucking stupidly not before, in loud and no uncertain terms where it had only been _acknowledged_ before, that this person is his _soulmate._ The person who spoke the words that wind around his finger, his entire reason for existing. The only person on the planet who will love him without doubt or need; the only person Bruce has ever wanted to love in return. Opens his mouth-)

“My name’s Bruce,” is what stumbles out, because fuck, he hasn’t actually told Tony his name, has he? _Who even does that?_ His shoulders hunch in, an awkward smile twitching on his lips as he glances hopefully at his raven-haired soulmate. He steps away from the dying bodies. “Come with me?” _Please?_

* * *

 

Tony, timid and twitchy, doesn’t hold his hand when they leave the building.

But his fingers do encircle Bruce’s wrist, tight and locking, a fleck of blood itching against his skin.

He smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ConvallariaMajalis mentioned being interested in Bruce's POV of part 5 in a comment, which made _me_ curious about Bruce's POV of part 5, and then I couldn't write his POV of _just_ part 5, so- 
> 
> I wrote his POV for each one.
> 
> Because **why not?**
> 
> Thank you, ConvallariaMajalis! :)


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